“Capm, when they’ve got through this job they’ll travel.”

The hideous prelude continued for half an hour.  The Apaches in the dance were relieved by their comrades in the covering party, who came one by one to take their turns in the round of prancing, hooting, and spitting.  Then came a few minutes of rest; then insult was followed by outrage.

The girl was loosed from the sapling and lifted until her head was even with the lower branches, three warriors holding her while two others extended her arms and fixed them to two stout limbs.  What the fastenings were Thurstane could guess from the fact that he saw blows given, and heard the long shrill scream of a woman in uttermost agony.  Then there was more hammering around the sufferer’s feet, and more shrill wailing.  She was spiked through the palms and the ankles to the tree.  It was a crucifixion.

“By ——!” groaned Thurstane, “I never will spare an Indian as long as I live.”

“Capm, I’m with you,” said Texas Smith.  “I seen my mother fixed like that.  I seen it from the bush whar I was a hidin’.  I was a boy then.  I’ve killed every Injun I could sence.”

Now the dance was resumed.  The Apaches pranced about their victim to the music of her screams.  The movement quickened; at last they ran around the tree in a maddened crowd; at every shriek they stamped, gestured, and yelled demoniacally.  Now and then one of them climbed the girl’s body and appeared to stuff something into her mouth.  Then the lamentable outcries sank to a gasping and sobbing which could only be imagined by the spectators on the hill.

“Can’t you hit some of them?” Thurstane asked Texas Smith.

“Better let ’em finish,” muttered the borderer.  “The gal can’t be helped.  She’s as good as dead, Capm.”

After another rest came a fresh scene of horror.  Several of the Apaches, no doubt chiefs or leading braves, caught up their bows and renewed the dance.  Running in a circle at full speed about the tree, each one in turn let fly an arrow at the victim, the object being to send the missile clear through her.

“That’s the wind-up,” muttered Texas Smith.  “It’s my turn now.”

He leaped from the wall to the ground, ran sixty or eighty yards down the hill, halted, aimed, and fired.  One of the warriors, a fellow in a red shirt who had been conspicuous in the torture scene, rolled over and lay quiet.  The Apaches, who had been completely absorbed by their frantic ceremony, and who had not looked for an attack at the moment, nor expected death at such a distance, uttered a cry of surprise and dismay.  There was a scramble of ten or fifteen screaming horsemen after the audacious borderer.  But immediately on firing he had commenced a rapid retreat, at the same time reloading.  He turned and presented his rifle; just then, too, a protecting volley burst from the rampart; another Apache fell, and the rest retreated.

“Capm, it’s all right,” said Texas, as he reascended the ruin.  “We’re squar with ’em.”